Iron Tears
by LaKRipper
Summary: At nineteen, she wore pink headbands, her legs were too long, and she avoided confrontation like the plague. At nineteen, everything went to shit, and the fact that she still wore headbands at nineteen made it obvious from the get-go that she wasn't capable of dealing with it. Drabbles. Viola, Pre!DressrosaArc
1. Chapter 1

Viola was nineteen when everything went to shit.

At nineteen, she wore pink headbands, her legs were too long, and she avoided confrontation like the plague. Not like Scarlett, having none of her elegance, her kindness, or her drive.

All things considered - yes, everything had gone to shit, and literally any other nineteen-year-old would have been better off.

No wonder Doflamingo had accepted her into the ranks as compensation. As if some little girl could do anything, her father's life under his thumb or not. Doflamingo could make her an executive, make her head operations and missions and whatever other important stuff an executive is supposed to take care of, he could trust her with his life, and it still wouldn't make a difference because Viola was just some little girl.

Her devil fruit power meant nothing. She can't help but think this is a twisted, alternative way to make her father squirm, watch his little girl be beaten into a killer and whored out. Let him live, alright, let him live listening to whisperings of his youngest daughter becoming a pirate.

She laughs now, but it rings empty and hollow, because she doesn't think she's capable of crying anymore. She's had this power for over half her life, and the one time it matters, the one time she should have been watching, and she completely and utterly _fails_.

.

.

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* * *

Well. Here we go again.

Drabble series about Viola in the ten-year gap. I don't know why. Will contain a lot of angst, horror, and maybe romance? I don't know. Let's see where this goes?


	2. Chapter 2

The gentle strum of guitar on a warm, summer night.

The swirl of small, yellow sunflower petals in the cooling breeze on a hot day.

Waiting anxiously for the right beat to sound in flamenco garb, and the thrill that comes with stomping down hard and fast, and back again.

All ruined with red, the jarring colour of crimson red against sunflower yellow.

Is there revolution? Are mothers crying out as their babies are taken from their bosoms? The sunflowers, have they been mowed down? Are maidens still maidens? Do the cities still stand? Are the men fighting in the streets, resisting and dying for their efforts?

There's an old saying in Dressrosa, about mothers. They say that the shadows under their eyes are there to hold back the flood of tears.

Viola has not let herself cry once since that night. In the dark room, devoid of light, and in the bigger world out there devoid of Scarlett, Viola has not let herself see, terrified of what she would see beyond her four walls of solitude. She is not a mother, but her heart always beats for the blood of the kingdom, and is that not what motherhood is?

The voice of their blood, once stirring and excited, shed on fields of green and dried to dull reds, right next to where Viola had vomited up so much that she was expecting her insides to come up too. She doesn't have to see to imagine.

She doesn't need a mirror, or any light, to know there are ugly bags under her eyes that stop the tears from coming. The single comfort she has is knowing that she isn't broken.

She wonders how long that will last.

She wonders, longer, how long she has been in her cage. Maybe a day or two. She hasn't slept at all - if she has, she doesn't know. They've brought in food three times now. They haven't shackled her, no sea stone. Not like she could do anything anyway.

Her back hurts. She doesn't know how much longer she can sit like this, hunched over in a way that used to scare her of developing a hunchback, the back of her neck sore and stiff.

She has to stay calm.

She has to stay strong.

She has to not wish that there's something in this room she can use to kill herself, because that would mean she is willing to kill her father.

She cannot let herself become a laughing stock that Doflamingo jokes about every now and then, of a naive, little girl who tried to be strong, and then killed herself because she wasn't.


	3. Chapter 3

She wakes up with bruises and an ache in her limbs that for once she does not object to. The pain is somehow something she appreciates, something stimulating. He stands at the window, his looming figure a silhouette in the night.

She is burning, and she swallows and blurts out-

"I am not yours."

The statement hangs in the air.

It lacks defiance or indignance, and maybe she's actually dreaming, or maybe she hasn't said anything at all, because he doesn't say anything.

Some part of her feels embarrassed and hopes she hadn't actually said anything, the other wanting of a reaction from him. His presence always demands to be seen, the audacious pink of his flamingo coat, the fact that he never takes those damn sunglasses off.

Eyes. The windows to the soul. She used to think it was the glasses that made him appear sinister, because they hid his eyes. She realises now it's because she's scared of seeing the soul behind his eyes.

In the dark, every movement seems so calculated. Slow but smooth, and seeing it in the corner of your eye is frightfully reminiscent of the way spirits move in horror films, and he turns to her. Her heart jumps in her throat, strangely not because she's scared, _I am not yours_ , but because she's ashamed.

His grins widens, because he doesn't believe her.

Neither does she.

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End file.
